


Ten Days On The Run

by MsMiaMimi (Mc_Mimi)



Series: Cerberus and Days Not Counted [3]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-06-03 19:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6623521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mc_Mimi/pseuds/MsMiaMimi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Charles learned to fight back, he was beaten down by every one he came across.  Charles met Remy at the lowest point of life.  Just when he thought he couldn't do any better and was heading back to his stepfather, Remy LeBeau winked at him and showed him another way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last Straw

**Author's Note:**

> There's no explicit sex between underage Charles and any johns or Remy in this story. However it does mention past abuse. Warning for graphic flashbacks and descriptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *edited 10-6-17

“I want to go home.”

Charles turns his head away from the man who smells like cigars and gasoline.  He tries the door again and finds that he still can’t pull the lock up.

The big trucker ‘rescued’ him.  He saved him from the cold parking lot he was last dumped in and fed him.  Of course, he wants to be rewarded for his efforts.  Again.  And Charles had tried.  But he’s tired and aching.  He’s scared to close his own eyes and see the darkness on the other side, thinking of the trunk he was kept in a few days ago.  He holds his bag close to his chest, his feet up in the bucket seat of the cab.  “Please, sir.  You can just let me out here.”

The man puts a fat meaty hand on the top of Charles’s head and ruffles his hair.  “You don’t know, kid.  There are some real predators out there.  Now me,” he says looking at Charles with his bloodshot eyes, “I’m honest.  I’ll be upfront with you.  You fuck around in these truck stops and gas stations and you’ll wind up buried by some serial killer before you get where ya going.”

Charles has heard this argument from the man twice now.  But he still wants to get away.  “I want to go home,” he repeats.  “Just let me out here, please.  You don’t have to pay me anything…”

The man laughs, harsh loud sticky coughing hacks.  “You think I owe you?  For that quickie back there the other morning?  You think I should pay for that shit?  You crying and snottin’ all over me?”

Charles looks out the window, crosses his arms around his chest and hopes.  He hopes with everything in him that he can get out of this truck.  “You’re right, of course.  How silly of me.  I owed you that.  Perhaps we can call it even and part ways?”  He keeps his eyes out the window.  He’s afraid to look the man in the eye again.  It’s always his stupid eyes that get him in trouble.

The trucker coughs and coughs before rolling down his window and spitting out of it.  Charles closes his eyes and prays the man doesn’t have tuberculous or some other communicable disease.  With his luck, he imagines it’ll be days before he’s hacking up blood in a gutter somewhere. 

The door clicks and Charles's eyes go to the popping sound.  The door is unlocked for the first time in hours and he finally looks at the truck driver.

The man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before pulling over to the side.  He sits back and scratches his neck, the scraping sound of his unshaved face reminds Charles of the abrasions on the back of his own neck and between his legs.  He gathers his things and quickly opens the door, jumping out the tall cabin before the man can say another word.

 

* * *

 

 

Four hours after he’s dumped in the middle of nowhere, Charles starts coughing.  He panics and seeks refuge from the sun and dusty air.  There’s nothing on this stretch of road ahead or behind him, so he keeps walking.  He imagines he’ll fall out on the gravel before he finds any shelter.

Just when he’s about to give up he looks out into the hazy distance and sees a rundown sign.

“Oh thank you, lord.  Thank you, Harry, whoever you are!”  He starts to walk faster, having a destination to reach. 

The sign for Harry’s Watering Hole may as well offer him wishes.  The sun-fried part of his brain thinks it found salvation.  By the time he reaches the rundown bar, he slowed down and had time to think.  He moves to the tree line and sneaks along the back of the property.  He rather not be found by any of the adults drinking in this establishment so early in the day.

Charles moves quietly, the shoes on his feet are worn and offer little protection.  He stops to examine the sole of his right foot and finds a quarter-sized hole.  “ _Oh lucky me_ ,” he thinks.  _“All the better to cool off.”_

He shakes his head at his own predicament before proceeding.

He’s well behind the building and comes up along the side, hiding behind a dumpster that stinks of alcohol and peanuts.

“Mon cher, I’m going to give you the good deal.  The best deal in the whole house,” says an accented voice around the corner.  Charles peeks out enough to see the shadows of two men.  “You come back 'round tomorrow night and tell Harry you going up to see me.  He’ll let you right in.  Drink and all.”

Charles stays low, watching as one man fumbles with his wallet, “I only have to speak for a few hours today.  Maybe I can come back tonight?” says a nasally voice.

“Oh no, hon.  Think of your presentation!  You want to walk in there tomorrow morning stinking of sex and covered in love bites?”

The man snorts, “Well,” he laughs, “If you put it that way.  Thank you for thinking of me.”

“Someone has to look out for you, sweetheart.  And little ol’ Remy is nothing but heart.  I can’t wait to hear all ‘bout your success tomorrow night.  You come on in here like a cowboy and shoot off about putting those dentists in their place.  You, my friend, are clearly the superior craftsman.”

The man, who Charles now assumes is some kind of orthodontist giggles before turning away.  “Thank you, Remy.  Thank you.  I had a lovely time.  Tomorrow night?”

Charles watches the shadows part and keeps still waiting for the southerner to walk away. 

He’s surprised to be barked at a moment later.  “Rats?!  Ah, fuck!  The hell you doing back there?!”

Charles stumbles and falls over.  The shock jars him and starts another coughing fit.   He’s hunched over and thinking this is it.  He’s going to be beaten or robbed again.  Maybe this man will call the police.  He’ll have to run.  But where, he wonders.  Where on earth can he run to now?

“You hear me, kid?  Get up from there.  Geeze.  You look like swamp shit.”  Charles looks up and sees the man clearly.  It’s not actually a man… More of a teenager.  Taller and broader than Charles.  Loud.  Long coat and too much hair.  Charles gets up on shaky knees.  He’s been attacked by older boys too.  He knows better than to trust young people at this point.  It was ‘friends’ at the first train station that stole half of his things.

“I’m sorry,” he says while brushing his pants and standing up straight.  “I didn’t mean to intrude.  I’m just… walking.  I’ll get going.”

“Wait a minute,” says the young man.  He looks up and down the road.  “Walking where?  There’s nothing thirty miles that way and nothing twenty miles that way.  You fall out of a car or something?”

Charles picks up his bag and holds on for dear life.  “No, sir.  I’m just traveling a bit.”

“Sir,” says the young man with an upturned lip.  “What the hell kind of language of that?  I oughta break your god-damn fingers.  Do I look like a ‘sir’ to you?”

Charles rapidly shakes his head, “My apologies, sir.  I mean!  I’m sorry!  Terribly sorry!  I didn’t mean to offend you!  Honestly!”

The young man laughs, “Remy.  Not sir.  Come on here, hitchhiker.”  He steps back with an outstretched hand.  “You got a name?  If you don’t want to say it’s cool.  I’mma just call you Jeeves.”

Charles shakes his head again, fast enough to rattle his teeth.  “Anything but that… Charles.  My name is Charles.”

“Charles, eh?  Well like I said.”  The young man walks away and Charles assumes he’s to follow.  They circle around to the front of the building and the young man doesn’t slow down, going inside as Charles warily follows his every footstep.

It’s dark and musty inside.  There’s a country song playing on a radio somewhere and an old hound dog sleeps in the sunlight.  A bar in one corner with bottles glinting, a small stage, billiard tables, and wobbly-looking tables make up the first floor.  A set of dark stairs lead to who knows where behind the bar.  Remy walks over to the dog and scratches the thing’s chest.  He whistles, “Come on, here.  Let Bea smell you so she doesn’t start barking when she wakes up.”

Since running away, Charles has had the misfortune of being chased by Dobermans guarding an empty depot.  He’s never been a pet person and sees little use for letting a sleeping dog smell him.  The young man gets impatient with him.  He slaps the dog on the hindquarters and it jumps up, barking softly before looking at Charles.

Charles feels his heart leap to his throat.  He starts coughing again, one foot ready to go out the door.

The dog ignores him.  Instead, she pads right past him, settles in a shady corner and goes back to sleep.

“Bea is fiercely protective of that corner and only that corner,” the young man winks.  “Watch your toes.”

Charles nods, just in case the dog changes her mind.  He follows Remy to the bar and sits when the other boy indicates he should take a seat.  He keeps his bag on his back, his feet ready to run out the door.

Remy goes behind the bar, moves around knocking glasses before he comes back up.  “You look like you could use a drink.  Of water that is.  Anything else will cost you.”

“I don’t have any money…”  Charles swallows.  The water Remy offers is cool and clear.  More than he expected to get at this rate.  He gulps it down without hesitation.

“No money, huh?  That’d make traveling a bit difficult.  You run away from some prep school or something?”

Charles shakes his head.  “It’s complicated,” he looks the young man in the eye.  “Are you going to turn me in or something?”

Remy shrugs, “Depends.  You kill somebody?”

“No.”

“Stole something?”

“No,” Charles sighs.  “But I’ve been mugged.  And it's making it harder to get home.”

“Ah, I see.  Got family somewhere waiting for you?”

“No.  Just a house.”  Charles hangs his head.  “I just want to go home.”

Remy pours another glass of water, “Sorry to hear that, kitten.”  The boy looks him up down.  “You look a few steps from death’s door.  You sick with something?  One of those babies with a hole in his little heart?”

Charles shakes head.  He saw Remy take money from a man and promising him another night… but it doesn’t mean he’ll want to hear about another whore in his territory.  Charles has learned the hard way that some sex workers are very territorial.  And what about this Harry character?  Charles has no desire to be pimped out in some roadside dive.  He sighs, “I've got the flu or something.”  He shudders to think of what he learned of STDs from his conservative homeschooling and the real education with his stepfather.  “I’ll be fine soon.  I just… need to stay out of the sun for a bit.”  He risks making the eye contact and the other boy sighs.

“Well, the closest hospital is a vet up the road.  I’d have to take you into the next town to get a people doctor to look at you.  Then I’d need to borrow Harry’s car.  And that’ll cost me.”  He sighs again before rolling his eyes, “I have rules about strangers and helping people who can’t be helped.  But damn if you don’t look wrung out… like a kitten bagged and tossed in the river.  I hate when people do that.”

Charles wraps his arms around his middle.  His body shakes with another cough.  “I’m sorry,” he says covering his mouth.  “I don’t mean to be a bother.”

“I don’t mean to be a bother,” mimes Remy.  He reaches over ruffles Charles’s hair.  “Come on here, kitten.  Upstairs.  You can sleep on my sofa until Harry gets back with that car.  Just try and not die up there.  It’s bad for business.”

Charles nods.  Part of him wants to go back outside and hide in the trees.  He could eat from dumpsters or something before hitching a ride with the least shady looking person that comes through.  But something about Remy feels, not safe necessarily.  But genuine.  It’s the first time in a long while Charles had felt like he was being told the truth.  And this boy working the middle of nowhere is less scary than those street-wise orphans he shacked up with miles and miles ago.

Remy leads Charles up to a small apartment over the bar.  It’s one room.  Neat and clean.  The stink of sex is being let out through the open window.  A little record player with a milk box full of vinyl sits near the bed.  Remy pushes it to the side, “Don’t touch these.  They’re my babies.  You touch ‘em and I’ll throw you out the window.  Understand?”

Charles nods, engraving the rule into his head.  Do Not Touch. 

Remy moves to a little chaise lounge.  It’s out of place in the little one-room apartment.  Ornate and red, with carved feet and dark oak wood.  “Lay down a spell, mon petite.  I’ll get you some sheets and shit.”

Charles does as he’s told.  He lays down and before long, he’s closed his eyes and gone to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Charles wakes with shock.  He sits straight up, coughs and coughs and coughs.

He’d forgotten where he was.  The easy blackness of his sleep had given way to terror.  A dream of hands coming out in the dark, grabbing and holding him down, stealing all the breath in his body.  He tries to catch his breath now, falling off the little chaise and lying on the floor.  When he evens out, he notices the ratty patchwork quilt wrapped around his legs.  His shoes are gone.  His bag is stuffed under the sofa.  Charles coughs as he panics and grabs his bag.  It appears to still hold his meager belongings.  A book, a change of shirts, a toothbrush.  He holds it close to his chest, expecting something to come out of shadows and snatch it away.

It takes a while for him to truly calm down.

When he does, Charles realizes its nearly night.  He must have slept for hours. 

Charles gets up and goes to the window.  He looks out on the dusty road and sees the little parking lot in front of the bar has started to fill up.  There’s seven rusty looking cars and trucks parked haphazardly in the dirt.  A few men mill around the vehicles, drinking and smoking.

Charles backs away from the window and hopes no one has seen him.

He’s not expecting a knock at the door.  He nearly jumps out of his skin while looking around for a place to hide.  It’s not necessary.  Remy opens the door and pokes his head in, “You decent?  I thought you might have showered or something by now.”

“No,” answers Charles.  “I just woke up.  I didn’t… I didn’t touch any of your stuff.  I swear.”  He’s shaking near the window despite accepting the boy’s help earlier.

Remy comes in, a plate of covered food in one hand and pair shoes in the other.  “Relax kitten, I just got you supper.  You want to turn on the TV or something?  I’m going to be a while watching the bar until Harry gets back.”  He set the plate down and leaves the shoes by the sofa.  “You can put on one of my shirts after you wash up.  Just don’t use up all my shampoo.”  He runs a hand through his long thick hair before going back out the room.

Charles is left confused and wondering for half a second when the door opens again. 

Remy pokes his head in, “Stay up here, kitten.  The crowds a little rough downstairs.  I don’t need to explain why a minor is up in a bar on Happy Tuesday.  Just ah… just stay up here until I close up.  You need anything else… well.  Keep quiet and wait for me to come back.”  He slams the door and leaves for real this time.

Charles moves over to the plate of food.  A couple strips of bacon and a small stack of pancakes.  “Breakfast for dinner,” he smiles.  “My favorite.”  He sits on the floor with the plate in his lap.  Food has been hard to come by in the last few weeks.  Charles can’t tell if it’s actually good, or if he’s just hungry.  By the time he’s licking syrup from his plate, he decides Remy must be an excellent chef.  Better than Cook from back at the mansion.

The room is quiet and still.  The dark from outside casting shadows on the few bits of furniture.  The bookshelf, the TV stand, the bed, and table.  Charles elects to stay clear of the bed and moves to the small door to the bathroom.  It's tiny.  Only a small shower cubicle, sink and low toilet with no lid.  “Better than the trees and signposts.”

Charles makes use of the little bathroom, even showering quickly.  When he steps out and sees himself in the mirror, he gasps.  He’s more skin and bone than he thought.  His hair’s grown long and unkempt.  The marks from the last two men still vivid on his neck, shoulders, and waist.  Charles looks away, feeling bile rise up in his throat.  He vomits in the toilet and sinks down to the floor.  Tears come and come and he can’t seem to move.

He doesn’t know how long he spends on the bathroom floor but he starts to hear shouting downstairs.

He gets up quickly, wiping his eyes and rushing to his bag.  Out in the room, he can hear the voices downstairs more clearly. 

“Come on, Remy!  Come on!  Remy!  Remy!  Remy!”

Charles shudders thinking of what the boy has to do down there with the ‘rough crowd’. 

Then he hears the soft sound of music playing.  A guitar.  Drums.  And Remy’s voice, a crooning wail that seems to silence all the commotion from earlier.  Charles sighs.  This is not what he expected, and he’s on edge ready to run out into the night naked and crying.

But Remy’s voice is loud, amplified probably with a microphone.  He sounds heartbroken and the song he sings has a gentle melody.  Charles finally relaxes and his head clears enough for him to think of what he has to do next.  He carefully goes through Remy’s dresser and finds a big white t-shirt.  A clean pair of boxer shorts.  He has to knot them on the side to keep them up.

Charles avoids the bed, sits on the floor again with his back to the chaise as he listens.

The song ends to loud applause and the beat changes.  Something fast and harsh.  Charles can make out the sound of billiard balls smacking and men talking over each other.  He gets up to turn on the television, finding a cartoon channel and leaving it on while he goes back to the couch.  He covers himself with the blanket before laying on his back.

This time he closes his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he’s unafraid of the darkness.

 


	2. The Car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *edited 10-6-17

Charles wakes up to the sight of Remy smoking in the window.  The other boy is sitting in the sill, one leg on the floor and the other dangling outside.  Charles sits up before he can think.  “Remy?  Are you alright?”

Remy shrugs, “Long night.  Just waiting on the car.  Like I said.  We’ll get you looked at and you can go on your way.”  He takes another puff before tosses his cigarette out the window.  “You started coughing when I got up here, so…” he gestures to himself.  “You’re not getting a cold over there are you?”

Charles shakes his head, “No sir.  I mean… Remy…”  He smiles and ducks his head.  “I heard you sing earlier.  It was very pretty.”

“Pretty?  Me?”  Remy gets up carefully before brushing his shoulder.  “Of course it was pretty.  Pretty is what I do.  I do pretty best.  Even vocally.”  He winks at Charles before moving to the bed.  “And now I’m going to sleep like a pretty, pretty princess.  And no one can wake me, not even a handsome prince.”  He’s already laying on his side and grinning at Charles, “Well maybe a rich prince.  A handsome, rich prince could wake me up.  Hell, kid.  If you see a handsome, rich prince walk through that door then you have my permission to throw a bucket of water on my lazy ass!  Do not let me sleep through that!”

Charles laughs and the sound surprises him.  He hasn’t heard it a long, long time.  The last time he really laughed was when Mallory took him shopping for new shoes.  She had snuck off and came up behind him, scaring the tar out of him.  But he had recovered and they laughed and laughed before returning to the apartment.

Charles looks away from Remy, thinking of that day.  It was only a six months ago…

They came home with their bags; Charles wore his new shoes home.  Mallory kissed him before leading them to the kitchen.  She made cinnamon rolls first and they ate those while she prepared a real dinner.  Everything was so good for a few hours.  But then she asked about the marks on his legs.  Charles had to excuse himself, claiming to have homework.

Now, Charles wonders if he should have told her earlier.  If she would have believed him.  Perhaps they could have been better prepared.

Remy starts snoring across the room and Charles sighs before getting up and taking the seat in the window.  He’s too afraid to stick his legs out, but the sight in the early morning is beautiful.  Beyond the dirt yard and the stretch of road, there’s trees and moonlight.  Charles rests his head, just admiring the view.

He’s nearly dozing when he hears the loud rumble of a dilapidated car pulling up.  It turns into the yard and parks in front the doors.  A skinny man with long stringy blond hair comes out of the car.  He looks around the yard and then up at the window.  His face says, "What the fuck?” and Charles is scared enough to duck away.

He runs back to the sofa and hides under it.

“Remy!” calls the loud, nasal voice from downstairs.

Charles reaches out to grab his bag and pulls it close to his chest.  He covers his mouth and tries to stay still.

Remy sleeps on, oblivious at first.  But the man has marched up the stairs.  There’s a jingle of keys and the door opens.  Remy wakes up to that and curses, “Fuck off, Harry.”

Harry’s walk is bow-legged and goes straight to the bathroom.  “Who was that up in the window!?”

“What?”  Remy sits up on the bed and looks at the sofa.  Then down at where Charles is hiding under it.  “Oh for Christ’s sake, kid.”

“Kid?  What are you doing up here Remy?”

“It’s nothing,” says Remy.  He raises his hands.  “Just a little straggler.  He’ll be gone by tomorrow.”  He gets out of the bed and crosses over to the couch.  He bends down just enough for Charles to see his hand.  “Come on, kitten.  We ain’t gonna bite.  Let Harry get a look at you.”

Charles is hesitating, but a snap of Remy’s fingers commands him.  He scurries up from under the sofa and stands up on shaking legs.  A thick cough racks his body but he keeps his head down, eyes averted from the gaze from Harry.

“Great.  You dragged in a stray with the plague.”

Remy throws an arm around Charles, “He ain’t contiguous.  Just all the road dust settling in his lungs.  I want to get him checked out tomorrow.  Can I borrow your car?”

Charles keeps his head down, letting Remy squeeze his shoulder while the man makes up his mind.  He thinks if the man is anything like Remy, then being pitiful is the way to go.  Charles coughs again, his whole body shaking while Remy pats him on the back.  Charles finally looks up at the owner of Harry’s Watering Hole.  And he blanches.

Harry has deep red, blistering scar just under his right eye.  And he keeps his eyes trained on Charles’s body.  He looks him up and down, “What a pitiful fucking sight.  I don’t want that thing dying in my car.  And you can’t hide boarders in my room without paying!”

Remy steps in front of Charles, “Fine, then I’ll pay.  For both us.  After tomorrow night.  Let me take the car and I’ll pay for gas and… the new battery you need too.”

Harry grins, “What is this?  You sweet on this little waif?”

Remy grimaces, “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.  Look, he’s a baby, for god’s sake.”  Remy gives Charles another squeeze, “And he looks a lot like my poor dearly departed little brother.  I’m feeling all… fraternal and whatnot.  Just lend me your car, you ass.  You’ll get yours.”

Charles lets Remy rock him while Harry makes up his mind.  The man scratches his chin and stares at Charles with beady eyes.  Charles can’t say what the look means but he doesn’t like it.  Harry finally makes up his mind, “Okay.  Get him looked at for whooping cough or whatever it is babies catch.”

“I’m not a baby,” is the first thing Charles says out loud.  And he instantly regrets it.

Harry look is definitely predatory, “I’m sure you’re not.  Let’s see about getting you presentable for the future, eh.  You heading somewhere, kid?  Family looking for you?”

Charles shakes his head but Remy fills in for him, “He just ran away from some abusive prick.  Smacking him and starving him.  Poor little thing.”  He pulls Charles over to the sofa.  “But he got an aunt looking for him.  Right, kid.  Willing to turn in a reward to have her little princeling back,” Remy’s hand brushes his neck but pinches as he gives Charles quick wink.

Charles gets the act, and for all he knows it could be true.  With the poshest accent he can muster he says, “Please sir.  My aunt is a lovely person.  I’m sure she will be happy to reward anyone who can help me.  I promise to pay you back for your kindness, as soon I reach home.”  He blinks up with big sad, eyes and seems to settle it.

Harry looks happier, “Well, then.  Let’s attend to the little lord and keep him happy.  Give him the bed Remy and you take the couch.  I’ll make sure he has a good breakfast in the morning.”  He grins at Charles before walking over and pinching his cheek.  “You have good sleep, little darling.” 

He walks out the room with a skip in his step.  Charles scrubs his face with his hand and Remy, blessed Remy, helps.  “Sorry about that, kid.  He can be kind of handsy.  You alright?”

Charles nods weakly, “I’m sorry I don’t really have a rich aunt.  All my family’s died off.”  He starts coughing again and Remy rubs his shoulders.

“Don’t sweat it, kitten.  The way you cough, I'd almost think it was the plague.  Should I call someone with the dead cart?  ‘Bring out your dead’!”  He laughs like he said something funny.

Charles only frowns up at him.

“Are you serious?  You’ve never seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail?”  He snaps his fingers, “You’re one of ‘em anime kids.  Pokémon and robots and shit, right?”

“What’s a Pokémon?”

Remy stares at Charles like he’s grown a second head.  “Okay.  First thing, that is just creepy.  Like the creepiest thing, I’ve ever heard a small child say.  You may as well be a dead baby crawling the walls and spinning your head.”

Charles continues to give Remy a blank and the other boy throws up his hands.

“Like in Trainspotting… That’s it!  We’re fixing you tomorrow!  First some cough syrup or something then TV.”  He pinches Charles on the arm, “You’re not lizard people are you?  First wave?  V?”

Charles blinks sleepily, “Can I go back to sleep now.”

“Yes.  Yes, you can, but I’m keeping one eye open.  Just in case you’re some kind of doll possessed poltergeist-thing made incarnate.  You don’t know any witch doctors do you?”

Charles shakes his head.

“Okay, then.  Go to back to sleep,” He pulls the blankets back and tucks Charles in on the sofa.  Then backs away with his hands raised, “Whatever else happens, remember I was nice to you.  If you’re some kind of fairy or angel or something, remember I was a good host.  Nothing untoward need happen to me.  I’m the good guy here.”

Charles laughs, “Good night Remy.  And thank you.”  He turns his back on the boy and sleeps peacefully, black and empty spaces and not a bad man in sight.  The new memory of Remy song plays on a loop.

* * *

 

Charles wakes up to smell of bacon.

Across the room, Remy sits on his bed eating a sandwich while watching TV.  He grins when he sees Charles.  “Well.  You passed the human test.  You hungry?”

Charles nods and gets up, he coughs a little as he moves over to the bed where Remy offers the other breakfast sandwich.  Toast, eggs, bacon.  Simple but filling for a kid who hasn’t really eaten in weeks.  “Thank you, Remy.  But…”

“But what, sugar?”  He moves over and lets Charles join him.  “You are a human, right?”

Charles giggles, “Yes.  But I’ve never been allowed to eat in the bed.”  He looks at Remy with a serious expression, “Aren’t you afraid of crumbs?”

“Fuck that.  I maketh my bed.  And I layeth in my own bed.  Quoteth Shakespeare.”  He winks at Charles as he brushes crumbs off, “Besides way worst has happened to this sheets… But lucky for you, I just washed them.”

Charles grimaces, remember the dentist from yesterday, “You… um… entertain up here?”

Remy narrows his eyes, “Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.  Private studio sessions.”  He grins, “And sometimes I find a fine slice for myself if you know what I mean.  No charge.”  He wiggles his brows.  Then stops being flippant to give Charles a considering glance.  “I have a rough feeling you do know what I mean.  But don’t worry.  I’m not letting anyone here mess with you.  And you don’t owe me anything.”

Charles looks at him hopefully, “Because I look your dead brother?”

“What… oh.  No honey, that was hogwash.  I was only… you know what it’s just a long story.”  He gestures with a finger between them, “Let’s keep our own council, alright.  You don’t bother the bones in my closet and I don’t go ruffling around yours.  Kapish?”

“I can’t tell if you’re speaking English.”

“No kapish.  Yadda yadda,” Remy grins before getting up and stretching.  His body is long and lean.  Tan and fit.  He’s completely opposite of Charles.  Charles is jealous for a moment before Remy takes off his shirt.  He’s covered in bite marks, bruises on his chest around his nipples.  He looks down at himself, “Yeah I know.  That last one was dozy.  Happy Tuesday gets crazy.  But I’m my own man.  At least I got regular work going and the best marks come through here.  All lost and stupid and shit.”  He hurries to the door and locks it before turning to Charles with a raised finger, “Promise not to tell Harry anything I’mma show you.”

Charles nods, “I promise.”  He knows how to keep a secret, he thinks.

Remy smiles bigger before going to one of his vinyl bins.  He pulls out a handful of records and reaches in, pulling up a locked box.  “This here is my treasure.  I’m saving up to get out of this hole.  Get back on the road.  I’ve been here almost two years with this shithead and Harry starting to crow at me like he’s a big cock when we both know different.”  He laughs at his own joke before opening the combination lock and sitting on the bed.  He shows Charles a stash of wallets and watches.

“Are these… stolen?”

“No,” says Remy with a gasp.  “These are donated.  This one,” he says picking up a leatherette with initials T.T. engraved on the side.  “Was donated by a fella with sleeping problems.  He went straight to sleep every time he ah…”  He jerks his hand and Charles laughs at the rude gesture.  “And I helped my sweet self to his back pocket while his jeans were on the floor.”  He kisses the wallet, “Almost five grand sitting right here.  I had some of the boy’s downstairs run up here and toss him out on his ass.  Told them he tried to strangle me.”

“Your regulars… they like you?”

“They would kill for me,” Remy preens.  “You have to be a good actor to hack it at this kind of thing.  It’s only a side gig, mind you.  I’m really a singer.”

Charles nods, “You have a beautiful voice.  I dreamt about your song last night.”

Remy blushes and ducks his head, “Why thank you, kid.  That’s sweet…”  He clears his throat and gets up, shutting his box.  “But we got to get you to the doctor first thing.  You coughed in your sleep and I thought you were going die right over there.”

Charles covers his mouth.  He’s been so worried and Remy seems to know so much…

“What’s wrong, kitten?  You look you like just swallowed an egg.”

Charles sniffles, tears come unbidden to his eyes and he starts crying before he can explain.  “I let… I let men touch me.  I let them… Sometimes I don’t let them.  And it happens anyway.  And no one wants to pay me but…”  He cries harder and hides his face, “I think I’m sick.  Because I let that happen.  It’s been weeks and I just… I keep getting worst and no one cares.”  Charles starts coughing while he sobs and Remy sits back down and pets him.

“Oh, you poor kid.  I know what you mean.  I know what that’s like.  How old are you anyway?  Nine?  Ten?”

“I’m twelve”, corrects Charles.  “I’m just short.”

Remy smiles and runs his fingers through Charles’s hair, “Well then Mr. Twelve, I know all about being too small and not having any control.  But you got something, I didn’t.”  He gives Charles a chaste kiss to the forehead.  “Get dressed,” he says without elaborating.  “I’ll get you to my favorite doc.  He’s good for not asking too many questions if you have enough cash.”

Charles wipes his face, “Thank you, Remy.  I don’t know how to repay you.”  He hopes Remy doesn’t have some sordid plan in store for him.  At this point, it would break his heart.  Charles almost wants to go crawling back to California and having this kind boy turn out to be another viper would do it.  He would turn himself in and face the consequences.  Or worst, he thinks.  Perhaps this life isn’t worth living at all.

* * *

 

About an hour later, Charles is in the car.  He hasn’t seen Harry again all morning and Remy lets him borrow an old gray t-shirt.  It hangs off his shoulders and falls to his knees, but its soft.  Remy washed and dried his only pair of pants and loaned his underwear again.  This time he took in the sides and sewed them, telling Charles he didn’t need them back.

Charles waits in the car and watches dust blow down the street. 

He doesn’t know what to make of the whole thing.  For all he knows, Remy is a bad man about to take him someplace horrible.  But he hates not trusting people.

“All set,” says Remy as he comes back to the car.  He climbs in, jiggling keys in his hand.  “We can ride around all day, I made sure.  Want to stop at McDonald’s for a happy meal?”  He smiles at Charles while he starts the car and pulls out of Harry’s Watering Hole.

If Charles notices the stink of sex clinging to his new friend, he doesn’t mention it.  He keeps his eyes to the window watches the road as they speed on.

* * *

 

Charles doesn’t know how far away the nearest town is, but Remy tells him it’s a two-hour long drive.  So he settles in with his bottle of water and tries not to cough too much.  At least the car has air conditioning.  Charles puts his hand in front of the passenger vent and sighs as the cool air blows across his fingers.

Remy laughs when he sees this, “Could it get any hotter?  I’m glad we don’t have to walk in this.  We’d melt out there.  You’d probably dry up and combust.  Puff!  Where’s Charles?  He was just here… oh, he’s ashes in the wind now.”  He laughs and slaps his leg.

“It was hot like this yesterday.  And I didn’t combust.”  Charles rests his head against’ the cool window.  “I just walked and walked.”

Remy goes quiet for a long moment.  But then he back trying to fill the silence.  “This is boring.  Aren’t little kids suppose play car games and shit?  How ‘bout… Hell, I don’t know.  Think of something and I’ll play along.”

Charles shrugs, “I don’t know any car games.”

“What kind of kid doesn’t know any car games.”

“You don’t know any either,” argues Charles.

“I’m not a kid.  I’m very mature for my age.”  Remy brushes his left shoulder while the car swerves, “I have my own place and my own cash.  I can take care of myself.  You though.  You need looking after.  That makes you a kid.”

Charles feels tired of talking, his body aches and his cough feels worst.  He coughs again wraps his arms around his middle. “I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to be a bother.  You don’t have to keep me entertained.  I could just sleep until we get there.”

“Hell no!  For all I know you’d die in that bucket seat and I’d have to hear Harry’s mouth for rest of time.  Keep your eyes open and play the stupid game.”  He looks seriously back at Charles.  “Just… count the number of white cars you see or something.

Charles looks out the window and sees no one ahead or behind them.

Remy sighs, “Okay count the posts or the birds or some shirt.  Fuck if I know.  What the hell does a kid who don’t watch TV do for fun.”

“I read,” says Charles.  He digs in his bag.  “I had lots of books when I first ran, but they were too heavy.  Then some of my things got stolen.  Then my whole bag was stolen.  This is the last book I had.”  He pulls out his copy of The Once And Future King.  “Have you read it.”

“I don’t exactly have homework at the Watering Hole, kid.  What the fuck are you draggin’ that thing around for?  Is it good?”

Charles smiles as he thinks about it, “Its… All I have left.  And here,” he opens to the back cover.  “My mother signed this in school for a friend.  It’s her handwriting.”  He smiles brightly, “It says ‘Good luck Merlyn.’  I don’t know if she meant it for somewhere else or the character.  He’s my favorite.  I like to pretend she’s writing to me.”

Remy softens up and smiles, “That’s sweet kid.  I wish I had something from my dearly departed momma.  Besides these good looks and fabulous hair, I mean.”  He winks at Charles and looks at the book cover.  “Okay then.  Read me a story, kitten.”

Charles can’t help smiling as he turns to the first page.  “On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays…”

* * *

 

They barely make through the first chapter before they reach the town.  Charles thinks Remy would have made an excellent student.  He started asking questions right away and disagreeing with everything read to him until he snaps his fingers.  “What a minute I know this!  Is this Disney?”

Charles had closed the book and grinned at his friend, finally finding something they could talk about.  He loved the Disney movie.

The small town is quiet and slow-moving.  Remy weaves in out of the traffic, impatient with the other drivers, “Get out of the way Grandma!”  He starts to get out and scream at an old woman but she levels him with a cold stare as they pass her by.  Charles ducks down in the passenger seat.  “Fuck,” says Remy.  “I think I just yelled at Death herself.”  He grins nervously but Remy is quiet for the rest of the drive.

They pull up to a small building labeled, Rochester M.D. and climb out of the car.

Charles aches all over from the long ride and his chest hurts from coughing.  Remy puts an arm around and leads him inside.  It’s quiet and dark, unlike any hospital Charles has ever visited.  He feels more like he’s in a morgue than a clinic.  He says as much and Remy laughs.  “This is Doc’s clinic.  There’s a proper hospital in town, but they’ll want to complicate things for you.  Doc here ain’t got no morals.  I called ahead at the Watering Hole.  He’ll see you now and take cash for doing so.  No questions.”

Charles nods but asks while clutching his bag to his chest, “Will you stay with me.”

Remy leads them to an exam room.  “I’m not leaving you alone, kitten.  Don’t worry.  We’ll get you some cough syrup or something and everything will be fine.”  He pats Charles on the back, but that only starts another coughing fit.

“Jesus Christ on a Hamster Wheel,” says a voice from behind them.  They turn at the same time as the doctor enters.  He’s a short man with dark graying hair and a pleasant face.  “Let’s hurry up with the preliminaries before a lung falls out.”

“Doc,” says Remy, “This is Charles.  Charles this is Doc Banner.” 

The doctor reaches out, “Call me David.”  He shakes Charles hand with a gloved hand before closing the door.  “Let’s get started, shall we.”

A few minutes into the exam David sighs.  He’s just looked into Charles’s mouth and back at Remy.  “Is it safe to assume your new friend has the same CV highlights?”

Remy frowns and looks away.  He gives a short nod, answering for Charles.  Charles coughs again but keeps his eyes down.

The doctor hums before getting up and going through the cabinets on the wall.  “I suspect then, that this is just a bacterial infection.  I’m not naming no names, but here.”  He finds a bottle and peels off the label, “Take two a day for the next two weeks.  Drink plenty of fluids.  Keep to yourself for as long as you can.  And take care, kid.”

Charles hops off the table, still coughing.  “Are you sure?  What about the samples.”

“I’ll get them tested at the hospital, but I’m fairly sure.  This is a common infection, son.  I’ve seen it before.  Try and take it easy for a while and get some rest.  Or…”  He gives Remy look, “We can find someone who can take care of you.  I know some people.”

“That’s enough, Doc.  We don’t need your social work.”  Remy pulls Charles by the hand and grabs the bottle.  “Here’s your cash,” he says reaching into his pocket with his free hand.

Dr. Banner shakes his head, “No charge.   Just make sure you look after him.  And take care of yourself, Remy.  I worry about you.”

Remy squeezes Charles hand and pockets the pills.  “Thanks, Doc.  But we have to be going now.  See ya around,” he says as hurries to leave.  Charles follows along and gets in the car.  Remy hands him the bottle, “Go ahead and take one now.  We’ll stop and get you something eat before we go back.”

Charles does as he’s told.  The pills are big and he worries about swallowing them before he thinks to ask, “Do you know what he meant?  I mean what’s wrong with me?”

Remy gives Charles a tight-lipped smile, “You want the truth, kitten?  I’ve seen those little blues before.  He gave them to me the last time I had Chlamydia.  So ah… that’s probably it.  Just do like he says.  And keep your mouth shut for a spell.  What do you want on your burger?”

Charles pulls his feet up in the seat then, knees to his chest he keeps his down.  He never answers Remy, too ashamed to really think of anything else.  His book sits on the dash and Charles wishes he could see into the future.

* * *

 

The drive back is quiet again but for Remy idly humming.  He looks at Charles sometimes and tries to give him reassuring smiles.  “It’s okay, you don’t have to look so sad.  It happens to the best of us.  Just have to be more careful, that’s all.”

“How do you…”  Charles wants to ask Remy how to be good at it.  How does he make money and control the men as well?  How does get what he wants without being hurt?  “Is that dentist coming back today?”

Remy rolls his eyes, “You heard all that, huh?  Yeah, the old perv.  He’s got a wife and family back home, you know.  I checked his wallet.  But he’s out here doing the nasty to boys in truck stops.  He’s horrible.”  Remy taps the steering wheel,” if you’re thinking of taking him, forget it.  You’re grounded until those pills clean you up.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.  Just how do you keep them… civil.   How do you keep them from taking advantage of you?”

“I don’t,” says Remy with a roll of his shoulders.  “I use them before they use me.  I plan.  I improvise.  See, you can’t just lie back and think of England, hon.  You want to survive you have to have rules.  My rules are simple.  One.”  He raises a finger, “Keep your head down.” 

Charles frowns up at Remy, “You mean literally?”

“I mean, if you see trouble, stay out of it.  There are paths to cross to get where you going and you can’t get anywhere if you stop and let everyone cross you.  You know what I mean?”  Charles gives him a look that says that he doesn’t.  Remy sighs, “Just keep your head down.  I’m breaking my own rule for you now, but I’m making your scrawny ass an exception.  You’re not planning to give me trouble are you?”

“No,” answers Charles.  “I promise.  I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Good.  Then rule two.  _Keep_ your head.  Watch where you’re going, who’s got you, study everything in every room you’re in.  You never know what you might find.  But to keep your head you gotta stay clean and sober.  I might dapple every once in a while, but not on the job.  Don’t ever let the John feed you or give you drink.  You know how that turns out?”

Unfortunately, already does, “Yes.  In the back of a car trunk.”   He swallows remember what happened to him only a few days ago.  The man who took him had picked him up and gave him a bottle of Gatorade.  Charles had passed out and woke up to the beginning of that nightmare, face down in the backseat of the car.  He shudders just thinking about it.  The bruises are still sore on his body and a part of him feels he’ll never get clean again.  “Keep my head.  Got it.”

Remy gives him a sad look.  “Rule three is don’t worry.  I don’t mean be lackadaisical or nothing.  Just, don’t worry about the what ifs and what have you.  Just worry about getting from here to later.  The past is the past, right.  No crying.”  He flicks Charles on the chin.  “You keep crying and you make yourself look easy.  Like someone who can be pushed around.  You don’t want that.  You want a John to be a little afraid of you.  Like you’re someone who doesn't care about tomorrow and are willing to cut him and run or die trying.”

Charles wipes his face, “Okay.  Okay, got it.”  He tries smiling but it’s probably a sad sight.  “But I could never hurt anyone.”

“Fuck that.”  Remy raises his hip and pulls a pocket knife out his back pocket.  “Here.  Take this and keep it.  Sometimes you have to hurt someone to keep from getting hurt yourself.  Sometimes you have take before things can get really desperate.  I’m in an okay place right now.  I’m paying off that skeevy fuck and seeing mostly my regulars, but I’m rambling out here soon.  If I can’t make money singing where I go next, I’m not above snatching a bit.”

“Stealing?”  Charles stares with eyes, “But that’s…”

“No worse than selling what I got.”  Remy taps his fingers on the steering wheel, “Like my box I showed you.  I rather grab the cash and run than put up with some slick fuck fingering me.  It just makes sense.  Ain’t none of this legal, kid.  John’s don’t have a code of ethics and neither do we, understand.” 

Charles thinks of the kids he ran from.  They were certainly amoral and unscrupulous.  But they survived.  Even if they preyed on Charles.  Perhaps he bought it on himself, he thinks.  Charles was always trying to be a good person.  A good son to a hateful stepfather.  And look how that ended.  He carves Remy’s words on his heart, “Okay.  No crying.”

Remy raises a finger, “Except when playing a mark.  Like you did back there with Harry this morning.  Acting is very important.  You pull off a good con and no one has to get hurt and you still make out good.”

Charles nods along, putting the fact he knows Remy had to lose something this morning out of mind.  “I can play along with anything.  What else.”

Remy shrugs, “Keep it clean from now on.  No ah… hey, how much have you done?  I mean you ever…”

Charles nods, “Everything.  Everything has been done to me.”

Remy goes a little pale, “…okay.  Well from now on, keep it clean.  Rubbers and no kissing or swallowing.  You can’t avoid getting sick, but it helps.”  The car is back on the long dusty stretch of road and Remy looks pinched and upset in the driver’s seat.  “Fuck.  I’m can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

Charles closes his eyes, feeling very heavy all of a sudden.  “Do these make you sleep?” 

Remy looks over and snaps his finger, “Fuck.  I forget about that.  It’s alright.  You nap over there until we get back.  And I’ll make you some soup, okay.  You can sleep it off for the rest of day.”

Charles yawns, “And Harry?”

“I’ll deal with him.”  Remy gives him another tight smile, “Don’t ever trust anyone kid.  Not even me.  But I’ll try and not dump your scrawny ass on the side of the road.  You don’t look like a dead brother,” he says reaching over ruffling Charles’s hair.  “But you do look like someone who needs me.”

Charles nods off, listening to Remy’s even voice as he sings a soft, familiar melody.

 

 


End file.
